The Salty Tales of Jack Sparrow
by Blacklabel
Summary: The lesser known but not necessarily less exciting snippets, tales, and anecdotes involving Captain Jack Sparrow.
1. Unlike Any Other

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**The Salty Tales of the Salacious Jack Sparrow  
**_a tale brought to you by Blacklabel & Blacklabel_

**_Blacklabel does not own Jack Sparrow or the Black Pearl. She does not even own one bloody piece of that_** **_shiny Aztec gold. Though, she supposes that's a good thing with it being cursed and all. Never the less, the powers that be insist she mention the Heathen gods, otherwise known as Disney, who do own Sparrow and_** **_the Black Pearl and all the cursed pieces of Cortes. The accounts that follow, however, are tales relating to_** **_and quite shamelessly involving Jack Sparrow and the Black Pearl and a number of odd references to the_** **_masterpiece that was Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl. Blacklabel does claim the rights to the telling of the tales to be told in this volume, as well as to the strange, new characters that may or may not inadvertantly run_** **_into Jack Sparrow. And, she says, any slightly staggering slurring of the narration is strictly coincidental._**

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Once upon a time—one, two, three centuries of sand slipping through the hourglass—in the land of sand and sun, there lived a most salacious fellow who went by the name of Captain Jack Sparrow. Now… most men who went by the title of 'captain' in Jack's day were merchants or sailors or Navymen, all men of honest trades, but Jack Sparrow… well, he wasn't like most men. No, for this Sparrow anything less than flying free o'er the sea was unfathomable, and so it was that this man, this Captain Jack Sparrow, was a Pirate.

Pirates, for the most part, were particularly pernicious. In fact, most men who took up the pirate's code did so only to cause worser trouble than otherwise would have been allowed by their women. But Jack Sparrow… well, he wasn't like most men. No, this Sparrow flew into trouble he wasn't looking for. Most times t'was luck Jack counted on to free him, and lucky was he that fate and fortune so oft favored him.

Indeed, Jack Sparrow was strangely fortunate. In fact, this Jack Sparrow was a strange sort altogether. There was scarcely a thing usual about him. He was, as they say, a bit off kilter and marched—or sashayed, really—to the beat of his own drum. Mad, perhaps, but there was no denying the brilliance that shone behind his black eyes. There was no denying that his slur slid from a silver tongue and no doubt that he, Jack Sparrow with the bead-laced locks and braided beard, was strangely charming.

Whether pirate or blacksmith, heiress or priestess, all who crossed paths—or blades—with Jack Sparrow fell under his spell and eventually held him in their hearts. But as Captain of the _Black Pearl_, it was his ship—a graceful black swan of a ship—that pulled the most upon his own heartstrings. Love and cherish her he did. Only once were they seperated, Jack Sparrow and his _Pearl_. A decade it was that both wandered lost without the other, but Jack Sparrow was nothing if not persistant. Ten years could not deter the Pirate and so it was that the Captain and his ship were reunited on a most gloriously golden day.

Sailed off into the sunset, they did.

But it was neither beginning nor ending to Captain Jack Sparrow's tales. Before and beyond that sunset there were many horizons. T'was only natural inclination for Captain Jack Sparrow to chase after them…


	2. Playing Games

Candlelight flickered.

"Well then." A smug smile lifted the pirate's lips to reveal a glint of gold behind them, and his fingers, beringed with adornments, waggled a fan of cards between them. "Do ye call?"

The slim scamp of a sailor across the table shook his head.

A crowd had gathered around them in the wayward tavern. Rogues and drunken sailors the lot of them. A veritable mob of foul language and sea-worn faces lit up with the shanty's rum-soaked pleasantries. Strangers were most of them, their dress as ragged or as polished as they were. Some of them were familiar faces woven through the crowd.

A dark, glowering man stood nearby, arms crossed his chest. A bald-topped portly pirate stood against one of the wooden supports, watching two inebriated chums place bets. This rotund fellow shared a smarmy smile with the man next to him, a gaunt ghost of a pirate. The sharp, yellow eyes of a straggly-haired man caught the look they shared. Giving a grunt of displeasure, he nudged the dark man beside him and that dark man fixed the two odd pirates with a glare. They faded under his gaze, as did their amusement, the both of them becoming highly interested in the card game at hand.

If the pirate or the sailor noticed this exchange, they certainly did not show any indications of it. They were in the thick of a game that had gone quite a few rounds. Both were gazing across the table at one another—the pirate with that smug smile still on his face and the sailor serious.

"Nay," said the sailor. "I raise you three." He slid three silver coins into the middle of the table and turned a hopeful smile to his embellished opponent. "What of it, Jack?"

"That's _Captain_ Jack to you lad," said Jack Sparrow, leaning forward. He forced the grin to stay upon his face, irritation sweating upon his brow. "Tell you what." Fingers flicked three coins to the pile. "I'll meet your three." He tossed another five coins in. "And I'll raise ye," he said, cocking his head at the boy, "five more."

"So you will." Nolan's own brow furrowed. He stole a look at his cards and, with lips pressed in a line, laid them on the table. "And I fold."

"Are ye sure, lad?"

"Aye."

Jack's eyes widened.

Nolan's narrowed. "What have you in hand?"

Captain Jack Sparrow tossed the cards down and grinned. "Nothin!"

Laughter rang out among the crowd, chortles and chuckles and incredulous guffaws.

'Course, Jack thought that would be, quite poignantly, that. He thought, of course, that the young scamp would this time be quite through with his, Jack's, games. But then, Jack Sparrow had never really prided himself on being very 'right'.

"…and I heard the _Pearl_ was docked, and I said to Gibbs 'Perhaps Jack would accept my invitation to play a hand of cards' and he said 'You really wanna play another round with that scoundrel?'"

Jack stifled a groan. To have thought his antics would have brought about such an end was quite rightly wrong. Nolan had kept place at Jack's table and had been gnawing his ear off the past five rounds of drinks, refusing to fall over drunk upon the wood and leave them in peace. Several times his whining, penetrating voice had nearly driven Jack to skewer him. And then the voice had faded to a murmur as the fantastical scene played out in his mind—the little prat's mouth wide with nattering on as he speared him, his voice finally ceasing, for the love of God wasn't Silence Golden? and then everyone, absolutely everyone in the place would say their praise and celebrate the shutting up of the chatty chum. And he could finally enjoy the buzz that was being killed, no slaughtered, mercilessly by the unforgiving conversationalist across from him—whose voice unfortunately had risen above the welcome departure from reality.

"And I said 'Why not? Seems he's a good enough fellow to play cards with!' and I think, Gibbs said 'Befriendin' pirates ain't a good idea' and I asked why and he said 'cause pirates don't have friends, Captain!'"

Barbossa snorted behind his mug.

Jack snuck a glance at the first mate. He decided that it was in his best interests to pretend he hadn't heard him and so started plucking at the coins on the table with what he hoped looked like a most unaffected indifference. "He's right, lad. Pirates don't have friends."

Nolan roared with laughter.

He dropped the piece of silver with a start. Had Nattering Nolan suddenly and inexplicably gone mad? He glanced at Barbossa.

The first mate rolled his eyes.

"Lad?" Jack poked Nolan's shoulder. "Are y'alright?"

"Pirates—don't have friends!" He laughed again, slapping his knees with mirth.

Jack frowned. This wasn't the reaction he'd expected from the lad—as ridiculous as he was—and was about to knock some sense into the idiot when he felt a warm hand clamp down on his shoulder. Over his shoulder he looked to the handsome man hovering there. "Bootstrap!" He tipped his hat at the pirate. "Wherever have you been, mate?"

"Well you see… it was..." William's wary eyes shifted to Barbossa before settling back on his friend. "Business I had to take care of." His shoulders slumped as he sat down next to Jack with a thump and eyed the coins on the table. "What's the silver about?"

"Cards, mate! Nolan here lost yet another round to your Captain! What say you to that business?"

William shook his head. "Jack, one of these days…"

"Yes. I know, I know. One of these days I'm going to get what's coming to me. One of these days I'm going to get my just reward. One of these days—" He grinned at William.

"—I'm going to get what I deserve," they finished together.

William grinned back.

"And you say pirates don't have friends!"

Bootstrap looked at Nolan and then at Jack, the mirth on his face faded. "Pirates don't have friends, Jack?"

Jack fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. "Not the non-pirate variety, mate."

"That so?"

"Sure 'tis Bill Turner."

William shot a glance at Barbossa.

"Well 'tis." The pirate shrugged and downed his drink.

Jack ignored the plaintive faces of Nolan Witter and William Turner, solemnly regarding a gleaming piece of eight. He picked it up, slipping it between his fingers, admiring the light it caught in even the dimmest of places such as the filthy tavern that they paid patronage to. The Faithful Bride. Oh she would always be there when they returned to Tortuga. He knew it without anyone having to tell him. She was aptly named. Always she would be waiting with offerings of sweet, delicious…

Oh hell.

Jack looked mournfully at his empty bottle of rum.

Empty! Well. Without a backward glance, Jack scooped up a bunch of coin, plucked the bottle disdainfully from the table, and swayed carefully to the bar, nearly tripping over his own feet—bloody stupid feet—several times and righting himself at each precarious moment. He pushed past several waiting customers and set the offending vessel in front of the barmaid. It made a resounding thunk. He glanced at it briefly before turning to her with a disenchanted frown.

"Wot's yer problem Jack?"

"It's _empty_."

"Well i'should be empty. Ya bough' i'hours ago."

"But I don't remember drinking it."

"Well thas what i'does t'ya!"

"When one drinks it!"

"Thas wha' I mean."

"Lass. I don't remember. Drinking it."

"Trus me Jack, ya drank the rum. I can smell it on ya from 'ere. Wanna filler up?"

He flicked a few coins at her. "Absolutely," he said, pointing at her. "Rum. Not any of that watery concoction you try to pass off as the stuff to the less savvy of the lot of us."

"Right." And with that, she was off to the back with the bottle.

Jack glanced about. He turned, coming face to face with William Turner. The sinking feeling in his gut had nothing to do with alcohol, he knew, as he looked up at the older pirate who had, over the course of a few years, become his closest friend. For as much as Jack cared about the man, he was always bringing out the bloody best in him. Which was never very good. Not for Jack. He was a pirate. He was sneaky and deceitful and dishonest… which made him all the more successful a scalawag… With William, whose goodness infected Jack seemingly against his will, he was sincere. Sincerely stupid. And… _nice_.

"No."

"And what's the harm in calling him friend, Jack, when the kid would save yer black soul if ye asked 'im?"

"Because, mate." He fully intended on leaving it at that. But his friend's darkening gaze got the best of him. Jack sighed. "Alright. Because Barbossa thinks I'm a soft fool, a daft idiot… a butter-brained… anyway, the man thinks it. I'd rather he didn't."

"Why worry about Barbossa?" William raised a brow. "Ye were quick to name the bloke first mate."

"Aye. They're usually the treacherous ones. And Hector, well. Hector's a." He stopped, frowning at the amused smirk on his friend's face. "What?"

William's glinting eyes darted toward the table where Barbossa sat, Jack's following. "Hector?"

Jack looked up at him, a matching smirk twitching his lips.

They both stole a glance at the surly first mate across the room.

William snorted.

Oh blast. That was all it took. William Turner, the sod, with his twinkling eyes, was as infectious with mirth as much as he was with goodness. The contagious snickering sent Jack into a hearty roar. Each pirate grabbed on to the other for support, succombing to the raucous laughter. It shook them until they wheezed with the effort, and, clapping the other on his back, they parted, wiping their eyes on their sleeves.

Jack grinned and pointed at him accusingly. "Pirate."

"Same to ye, bilge rat." William shook his head and leaned against the bar. "_Friendless_ bilge rat."

"If I'm friendless, what does that make you I wonder?" Jack's grin turned to a smirk at the returning barmaid. "Think I'll remember drinkin it this time?"

"Never seem to, Jack."

"A mystery solved, aye?" William tried to appraise Jack without a laugh. "So that's why you're always wondering where yer rum's gone."

He frowned. "You know, now that you mention it…"

"Always asking 'Where's me rum? Which one o' ye scalawags has been swiggerin me rum?' he is." William conspired with the girl. "Never thought the logical of course, that he drank it, got bloody drunk on it, and can't remember the drinking it part."

"A right riot, Jack is," she agreed.

"Glad to be amusing you, love." Jack accepted the bottle. "You'll see me again and we'll do this once again. Or more, though I probably won't remember." He winked at her and turned to William. "Bloody out of line, you are."

"Oh blast ye, Jack. Ye know it was only in good humor."

"Aye, always is." Jack looked at their table where the glowering Barbossa sat, hand twitching at the hilt of his sword as the young Nolan Witter talked his head off. The lad would be talking his own head off, literally, if someone didn't step in, and soon. Pausing, Jack wondered if stepping in would turn the tide his way. After all, the kid _was_ a pain in the backside… his backside to be exact.

"Jack." William's other annoying trait was knowing exactly what Jack was thinking whenever he was thinking something that wasn't up to the Turner Code of Conduct. He frowned disapprovingly.

"Oh, all right!" Jack scowled. He gulped a heavy swallow of rum and staggered back to the table, pushing past several skirmishes on his way. Sitting the bottle down on the table, he gathered himself to his fullest height and puffed out his chest, trying to look his most impressive. "Barbossa." Somehow it didn't sound as he'd planned. Not nearly as deep and commanding. More like a slurry hiccup.

Hiccuping Hector…

Oh blast. Not that again. He pressed his lips together.

"Jack?"

"I've a task you might be interested in, mate." Jack nearly fell backwards as he tried to stand tall. He ignored the snort at his stagger and the fact that the man hadn't addressed him as Captain and smiled most graciously at the older man. "Seems that Lovely Linette has been eyeing you all night."

Barbossa, and William, followed the flick of Jack's wrist across the tavern. Near the staircase that led to the inn above stood a comely brunette. With a bat of her lashes, she smiled sweetly in their direction.

Jack smiled back but turned his attention quickly back to his first mate. "I wouldn't want her to think Captain Jack Sparrow's crew can't properly… acknowledge… a wench's interests, savvy?"

A predatory glint in his eyes, Barbossa grinned. "Well I would hate to disappoint." He bent to gather his effects. "I'll acknowledge her. It'll be my pleasure."

"Excellent!"

The brunette glared viciously at Jack.

Jack's eyes widened and he nodded at the brunette.

She shook her head, arms crossed.

Barbossa laughed.

Jack snapped back to stature and smiled down at him.

"You're a man of surprises, Jack."

"Many." When the first mate leant down to pick up his own share of coin from the table, Jack returned the plea to the brunette. Groveling wasn't something he did unless all other options had flown out the window, but there was no choice with a woman. His lips formed begging words, his hands pleading in prayer.

She rolled her eyes.

He nearly sighed with relief and recovered his stance just in time for a hearty clap on the back from Barbossa. He smiled nervously up at the man who towered over him. "Go get 'er then, mate." Then he and William, who, with a lip bit stiff, had observed Jack's entire exchange with the woman, watched as Hector crossed the room, putting on quite a good deal of charm when he met her at the other side.

Two sets of brows lifted when she seemed taken with the show, blushing as the man bent to whisper in her ear. She giggled and fawned over him, pawing at the collar of his coat. When Barbossa began leading her up the stairs, however, her green eyes flashed angrily at Jack.

"Heaven help her." William saluted the disappearing couple with his hat. He nodded at Jack. "And you."

Jack winced.

The two pirates commenced drinking themselves silly with rum, Jack nearly forgetting why the bottle was empty every time he went for a fill of it. William listened to the young Witter with interest, filling his mug with the sweet drink whenever it dried out. Jack would have protest if he had been sober, but he wasn't sober, and, to be fair, he wasn't paying much attention. Rose wouldn't let him pay attention. Unless he paid it to her of course. And her… effects, which, he had, at some point, decided, were nice enough to pay attention to.

"Jack." William frowned, trying to find a spot of his friend that wasn't covered with Rose. "Hey Jack. Jack Captain Sparrow of the _Black Pearl_."

Was he mad? Could William Turner not see that his mouth was busy? "Hrrm?"

"Nolan's passed out."

"Mmmmhm."

"He's asleep."

"Mmmmhm."

"Not awake."

"Mmmmhm."

"Someone's taken your rum!"

"Hmm…" Jack's eyes shot open and he pushed the woman away. "Who's took me rum?!" His gaze fell upon it sitting untouched on the table and then his eyes narrowed at William. "You—"

"Pirate," his friend finished. He pointed at the sitting Witter.

Rather, he pointed at the place where Witter should have been sitting.

Jack frowned. "He's passed out then?"

"Aye!"

Jack smiled. "Very good!" He fell back into the lusty embrace with Rose.

"Jack!"

"What?!" He pushed the woman away, tired of being interrupted. He would rather not have her at all if this was going to keep up. Blast. Watching her walk away was like watching his arm being sawed off. He sulked and examined the whelp that had flopped over. Nolan Witter lay with his arm draped over the table. His mouth hung slightly open, a puddle of drool pooling slowly at the corner where it met the wood. A soft snore buzzed from his nostrils. "What should we do with him?"

"Let's…" William trailed off, looking up at his friend. "I don't know."

"We could always tie him up, gag him, and let Rose's friends give him a scare."

"Jack!"

"Ye did it to me!"

"Only once and you deserved it."

"Well now that's debatable, mate."

"No frightening jokes on this kid, Jack. He's a good egg."

"Oh alright, alright." He rolled his eyes. "No scaring him. Good egg?"

"Let's take him back to his ship."

Jack considered the suggestion.

Some time later, the two pirates trudged toward the docks, and ultimately, Nolan's ship. Jack thought it a wonderful night, having been plundered by several painted ladies along the way and having plucked a cask of rum from the outstretched hand of a sleeping sailor. The air was ripe with Tortuga's most proliferous bouquet. _Proliferous bouquet_, yes that was precisely what the smells of Tortuga were, and he knew that it was a line he would simply have to repeat at some point. Hopefully someone thought it was as clever as he did. Pondering aside, it was a wonderful night indeed. Well, except for the bloody stupid ass lagging behind them.

"I thought we'd agreed not to fool with him." Turner wasn't thrilled with his task. He held a carrot over the donkey's head, urging the beast forward through the winding paths of the village.

Jack flashed a grin at his friend. "We agreed not to _scare_ him. Never said anything about humorously humbling and otherwise humiliating fun."

"But why do ye seek to humiliate the lad?"

They had stopped at the bottom of the hill, the ass looking up at them stubbornly from under its bushy eyebrows. If asses had eyebrows. Jack wasn't sure if that's what they actually were, but that's what they appeared to be. He stared down past the thickets of hair into the beast's eyes and arched a brow. "Why won't this ass move?"

"Like I'd know anything about asses."

"Oh, and I do I suppose!"

Turner grinned.

"Not funny." Jack wagged a finger at him. The donkey's snapping at it shot him a few feet into the air, a whirling bit of coat and clunk. "Blasted ass!"

"Precisely what I was thinking."

"Sod off!" Jack bared his teeth menacingly at the donkey who looked up at him with easy dark eyes. Under those eyebrow things…

Nolan Witter gave a soft groan from the animal's back.

The pirates stopped and stared at him. They admired their handiwork. Rather, Jack admired it. William looked quite appalled by it. They had put the lad in a thick curly wig, dressed him in Rose's lacy under things, and painted his face. His eyes were lined darker than Jack's, his cheeks ruddier than the heartiest pirate in Tortuga, and his lips red as the the lips of the ladies for sale. Around his neck were strands of brightly colored beads, on his fingers several rings that even Jack considered too gaudy to wear, and stuffed in his mouth a very dead, very wet fish. Sickeningly smelly it was, but not at all overpowering the cloying scent of Rose's strongest French perfume, Ew de Toilet.

Well, something like that.

Jack snickered.

"Jack, this is not funny."

"The only thing that isn't funny, William, is that your sense of humor seems to have altogether disappeared. Right off the map. Just… dropped right off. Oh there it went. Right after Atlantis!" He frowned at the donkey. "That and that this ass is the laziest that I have ever had the utter misfortune to meet!"

"Probably trained not to go to the docks lest pirates pilfer it." William waggled the carrot in front of the animal. "As if we'd take an ass on a ship."

"With all this talk of asses, I've thought of something. Slap that thing on its rear and we'll be on our way." He was pleased when the suggestion worked, and patted his friend in thanks. "Good man." The bray of the beast drew his gaze down. He hesitated. Grimaced as he patted the animal. "Good ass."

They were quite a spectacle, walking along the docks as they were, handsome William foisting a carrot above the beast who carried the sleeping village idiot who had been decked out louder than even the embellished pirate captain walking next to them. Sailors pointed and pirates laughed.

"Splendid." Jack grinned and nodded back at them. "Exactly the reaction I was expecting!"

William didn't share in his delight. "He is only a kid, Jack."

Jack rolled his eyes.

The _Nolario _was a big ship. It rose high above the ragged dock on the westerly side of Tortuga. It was gold and blue and polished. Its uniformed crew on deck was busy, milling about with purpose. They had left the boarding planks in position and so, without so much as blinking, Jack led William and the ass up onto the deck of the ship. He wasn't surprised to come face to face with the business end of a musket and he calmly pushed it away from his nose.

The man holding it squinted at the ass behind him. Then he aimed the weapon back at his face. "Bad luck to bring an ass aboard a ship."

Jack pushed it away again to gander at the man before him. The sideburns were exactly as Nolan had described. And his face was as ruddy and his gut as hearty as well. "Mr. Gibbs is it?"

"Aye." His gaze narrowed. "Captain Sparrow?"

Jack gave a slight bow.

"What's the ass for?"

"Thought he was yours." He nodded toward the animal—and young Witter.

"Bleedin saints!" Gibbs gaped at the sight.

Jack smiled and wrapped an arm around the man's meaty shoulders, turning him to walk toward the helm of the ship. "Found him like that, mate. Unfortunate thing really. Your captain's a bit eccentric it turns out. Slightly odd. Not right in the head. I would be very careful if I were you."

"Careful?"

"Cautious. Never know what a man like that is likely to do. Desperate for affection I'd say. Hard telling though."

"Captain Witter's not that way."

"No, I hadn't thought so either. But. We found him that way. Dreadful. Just dreadful. Thing is…since the lad's a Witter it would be very unfortunate if word got about that he was a… well. You know."

"A eunuch?"

Jack frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the could-be eunuch with the fish clamped in his mouth. He ignored William's reproving frown and turned back to the sailor with a shake of his head. "No, not a eunuch. Most definitely not. Boy does have a beautiful singing voice though."

"Aye, certainly." Gibbs nodded sagely. "It's why I asked."

"I'm afraid it's worse than that."

"Worse than being a eunuch?"

"Far worse than being a eunuch, mate." Jack let loose with a whopper of a sigh and forced a saddened look on his face. "A sick man. Perverse. Wicked. He's got a fish fetish."

William made a strangled noise, but Jack chose to ignore it and Gibbs seemed not to have heard it.

"A what?" Gibbs' wide eyes turned to his snoring captain slumped over the ass and back to Jack. "Not a fish fetish!"

"Afraid so, Mr. Gibbs. Poor lad's turned into a fin flipper. A gill glugger. Scaly sniffer." Jack grinned a bit, only to bite it directly back when the sailor narrowed his eyes. He rolled his own to the sky. "May the heavens help him."

"Aye."

"You know what they do to sniffers when they find out about them."

Gibbs frowned. "Fraid not."

Jack shuddered. "Awful things. Poor souls go through torture." Jack paused, his gaze sweeping over the staircase to the upper deck. "I hear it's some sort of… steps…"

"Steps?"

"Steps." He leaned on the railing with another sigh and rueful shake of his head. "Usually twelve of them. And if you don't follow the steps, mate, you get tossed off the wagon."

"Off the wagon?!"

"Right off it, so to speak." He shook his head. "And right back into sniffing. Scales."

"A shame is what it is."

"Absolutely."

"Just what in the name of God is going on?"

Jack swiveled to face the man who had snuck up on him.

"Edward Swift." This one was all angles. Angular nose, sharp chin. Sharp cold eyes as well. Flashy coat and a pointy hat. "Advisor to young Captain Witter. What is this commotion about?"

After all, the entire working crew had stopped their working and had commenced staring and snickering. William Turner had somehow been able to have earnestly kept a solemn look on his face, allowing the ass the carrot he had obviously grown tired of teasing it with. The beast munched happily on the snack. And Nolan Witter was sweetly oblivious.

Jack had to fight to control the mouth twitching delight of it all. He managed, thinking of what the Witter clan could do to him if they found out that it was a farce. A fantastic farce, but they, surely, wouldn't see it the way he did. Sadly, not everyone had the capacity to appreciate a respectable ruse. In fact, it seemed as if the world had been glued stiff as of late. No fun at all. And this advisor didn't look fun at all…

"It's not good Mr. Swift." Gibbs sighed wearily and leaned closer to the man. "Captain Witter's grown attached to fish."

"What?" Swift frowned at Sparrow. "Fish?"

"Sad, I know," Jack lamented. He fixed doleful eyes on the man. "But always a risk when a sailor takes to sea."

"Mr. Gibbs, please get your captain to his cabin _immediately_." Swift waved the sailor away, studying Jack with a sharp eye. He frowned deeply. "Mr. Sparrow and I shall discuss this… problem."

"Aye and it's Captain Sparrow, Mr. Swift." Gibbs plodded off.

Jack smiled. The man had remembered. Good man.

"I would like to know about this…"

"Problem?" Jack supplied, strolling easily alongside the taller older man.

"Yes."

"It's simple, really. The sea proves to be too lonely for some sailors. Particularly," he flicked his hand in the air, "most of the young ones. Sad but true, Mr. Swift. With women scarce on the open ocean… Let's just say anything, even something with gills and scales, starts to look… promising."

"So the boy has a… a fish fixation?"

"Precisely!"

"How very peculiar. He detests fish."

"Yes. That is a sign of it. Very telling. A sailor suffering such an affliction would most certainly be in denial."

"What would… remedy this problem?"

"Twelve steps, I hear. Wagon exercise. Very progressive."

"Wagons, Mr. Sparrow?" Swift arched a brow.

"If one forgets to follow a step, he gets thrown clear off the wagon." He frowned. Oh but he hoped the man wasn't as sharp as he looked. Explaining something that had been all but whipped right off the top of his head was almost always risky business. "A lot of incentive. Wagons aren't fun to be thrown from, you know."

"No I would imagine _not_. What steps?"

Jack nodded sagely. "Twelve of them. All leading to self-awareness."

"Self-awareness."

"Yes."

Edward Swift nodded and strolled through two open doors. Jack followed, glancing about the room at its finery. Truly, the _Nolario_ was a Witter ship. Richly appointed and classically beautiful. A gilded and glossy and high-class affair. Superfluous wealth had built the finery around them. The Witter family had no need for pirates anymore. They had enough riches to last a hundred lifetimes.

"Fine ship," Jack admitted, admiring the thick rug underfoot as his boots ceased to tap on the planks.

"Why thank you."

Swift and Sparrow turned to the one who had said it. A solid man by the look of his strong jaw and brow. Eyes blue like the lad's but edged in cold suspicion even as he accepted the compliment with grace. His face was touched with a few telling lines. And he sat, straight-backed, in a fancy chair.

"Wilhelm Witter, brother to the departed Onry." Edward introduced them. "Jack Sparrow, Captain of…?"

"The _Black Pearl_."

Old Witter nodded. "Boy has much to say about the man."

"Well the man has much to say about your boy."

"Is that so?"

"Afraid so."

Nolan's father waved Jack into the chair across from him. "Sit. Tell me of this." Worry creased his forehead. For a moment, Jack wondered if this was going too far. He hadn't expected family to be sailing with the lad. Swindler Swift he'd expected. But not the brother of the famous pirate and the anxious father of the all-too-trusting lad, not Wilhelm Witter...

But he forged on. "My mate, Bootstrap Bill, and I happened upon your son tonight. Intoxicated. Caught him… in the act, so to speak."

"In the act of what?"

"Fish."

"I don't understand."

"The boy has a perverted view of fish, my lord." Swift sighed impatiently. "He favors fish. They… please him."

"What?" The man was aghast.

"Your son is a fish fetishist." Swift cut to the quick.

"A what?"

"He _fancies_ fish, sir."

"Preposterous!" Wilhelm's brows snapped at Jack. "Is this your crude idea of a joke?"

"On the contrary. Serious is what this is."

"My son does not _fancy_ fish. He _hates_ fish!"

"Love, hate… Very thin line between the two."

"You are off your rocker, Sparrow!"

"But I'm _not_ off the wagon."

"Sir?" Swift eyed them warily. "Perhaps it would be best to assess the situation after you have witnessed the evidence which, I'm sorry to say, seems compelling to say the least."

"What evidence?" Wilhelm's glare snapped to Swift. "You don't mean to tell me that this is true, do you Edward? Surely you find this as completely ridiculous as I do!"

The advisor stood tall, his mouth drawn. His gaze shifted between his Lord and the pirate across from him. Finally, feet shuffling, he nodded. "The condition of your son suggests that this is not as completely ridiculous as it sounds, sir."

Jack watched the elder Witter rise from his chair. The man was much bigger than his son was. Very tall and broad shouldered. Dressed, to the hilt, in silk and brocade. Ruffles of fine lace peeked out from the cuffs of his glorious jacket. And a very big, very curly pale wig spilled down his back. He walked with the distinction of a Witter—the air of a man who was so significant that the Crown needed _him_. And he was livid under all of the polished exterior, his brow sweating, his lip trembling, and his eyes snapping sparks at Jack.

"I refuse to believe it!" he roared suddenly, fists jabbing the air.

He was sure he'd shrunk back in the chair. He had definitely not planned on that development. For such an easygoing lad, Nolan Witter's father had a significantly short fuse. A significantly short and most likely dangerous fuse, and suddenly, he wondered if blasted William Turner had been right. Had this been completely unnecessary? Perhaps he had gone too far. Perhaps it was time to bow out gracefully—and run like hell. Perhaps it was time to get out—

"Refuse to believe what, Father?"

The cool, clear voice had come from behind him, but Jack dared not to take his eyes off of the furious Wilhelm Witter. The man was too angry, much too angry to not pay attention. Fortunately, at the sound of the calm voice, the man had gathered some of his lost composure. And as he stalked from the room, Swift reluctantly following, Jack thought he heard his name attached to a solemn oath of revenge.

"What have you told my Father?"

She'd strolled around his chair to stand before him, the small girl who looked as delicate as a porcelain doll. She was a wisp of white in a scanty silk kimono, but commanded a certain bit of authority with dainty hands upon her hips and lips drawn tighter than Swift's. Grey eyes cold as ice narrowed upon Jack.

"Well?"

He fought the urge to shiver, fought the whisper of a familiar endearment on the tip of his tongue. "Nolan's got a bit of a fixation. With fish."

The girl's mouth twitched at the corner. "Is it true?"

"Come again, lass?"

"You heard me, _Beaunasty_." She slinked across the floor to a silver-laden cart, whisked a china cup off, and poured a steaming silver pitcher over it. "How do you take your coffee?"

"You, _little miss_," he said, not missing the dangerous flash of her eyes in his direction, "ask too many questions."

"You don't want coffee?"

"_Cream_."

"Very well." When she had readied their cups, she returned and held one out to him. "Careful, as it is fine china you shall be drinking from."

"Of course." Though he was accustomed to the so-called finer things in life, Jack looked down his nose at the cup in his hand. Bloody useless dainty handles it had. He frowned at it before he took a swallow of the stuff. Oh but that was delicious… he hadn't had coffee in days. Weeks perhaps. "Delectable, darling."

"Who are you?" The girl was swallowed in the enormous chair her father had sat on. Legs crossed, a cup and saucer balanced daintily on her knee, she studied him. Her gaze flit about his face, to the beads and the hat… to the kohl 'round his eyes. "I feel," she said slowly, "as if I know you."

"I've no doubt you know _of_ me at the very least." He flashed her a smile and swallowed another delicious swill of the warm drink. "Captain Jack Sparrow, love. And you?"

"Captain Alice Witter."

"Captain?"

"Yes."

"Well where is your ship?"

"This is my ship."

"This is your brother's ship."

"My brother is a fool." A smile lifted her lips. "Is it true what you told them?"

"Of course, lass."

"I don't believe you."

He paused in lifting the cup to his lips and stared at her over the rim. So far, he'd managed to slip by Swift and, with any luck, Wilhelm Witter would soon believe the story he'd concocted. If he couldn't slip such a thing past a girl, Alice Witter or not, he would not ever live it down. William Turner, who was in very close proximity to what could be his undoing, would forever recount the story of The Day That Captain Jack Sparrow Was Found Out By A Girl. Not a welcome thought. Not a welcome possibility. He forced it from his mind and took to studying her.

"What is it? Have I something on my face?"

She was cold. Everything about her… cold. Nothing warm! She was slight and pale and lovely as a London snowfall. And she seemed amused, somehow, by this exchange. Amused, somehow, at the prospect of Nolan Witter, her own brother, being fooled with by a pirate. Or perhaps being a fish fancier, if she believed him. He hoped that she believed him.

"No," he replied.

"Then stop staring. It's very rude."

"Don't think you're one who should be nattering about propriety, love." He shrugged and pretended to be engrossed in the detailed mural above them. Well, half-pretended… it _was_ very pretty after all.

"Excuse me?"

"Calling the Captain of a very important ship 'beaunasty' is something of an insult, I do believe. But then I wouldn't expect much more from the spoiled little rich poppet of a daughter of a fancy-to-doer like Wilhelm Witter."

"You really think my father will fall for a clever ruse of yours, Captain Sparrow?"

"It's possible."

"He won't." She smiled pleasantly. "But I do think it's amusing what you've cooked up for us this evening. A fish fancier? I'm near sorry I'll most likely be forced to watch you be fed to the fish of Tortuga. Fancy that, indeed."

"Lass, you aren't nearly as witty as you believe yourself to be." He sighed. "Your brother is a sick man. Perverse. Nastier than beaunasty, in fact. Desp—"

"Oh, do shut up." She languored back in the chair and fixed him with a level stare. "Tell me about your ship."

He frowned. Hadn't she just insulted him?

"If you tell me about your ship, I shall tell you about this one." She glanced up at the decorative ceiling. "Since you seem to fancy her."

"Apologies first, love."

"Well out with them then."

"Your apologies, Miss Witter."

"That's Captain Witter to you."

"And I'll be having your apologies. Time is of the essence."

"Dream on, Captain Beaunasty."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Well this was splendid. The woman—girl—was stubborn as the ass out on deck! And, similarly, as infuriating. And, coincidentally, as stoic. She wasn't going to budge. She wasn't going to apologize. She wasn't going to fall at his feet and admit that he was as respectable as she. In fact, she was going to sit there—in that lurid gown—pretty revealing all in all—staring back at him without a word while they waited for the return of her familiars. Wasn't she?

He swallowed the rest of his coffee and set the saucer and the cup on the table between them, taking greater care than necessary with the dainty china. Relaxing in his chair much the way that she did, he leaned his head back against the fine upholstery and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling again. If he were right, it was a scene from the Sistine Chapel. God reaching out a hand…

Well that figured. The Witters have a mural painted on their ship and they paint God in it. Not Neptune. Not Poseidon. Not even Onry Witter, but God.

Alright, this silence was unnerving. Any more of it and he would start wondering why their ship was blue and not black. "The _Black Pearl_ is indescribable." He dropped his gaze to the girl across from him and was surprised to find her staring back as intensely as before.

"Then perhaps I should see her instead."

She wanted to see the _Pearl_? The girl was inviting herself to his ship? After she had insulted him and refused to apologize? "And how do you propose we get there? I only ask due to the severely inhibiting possibility of your father feeding me to the fishes. Since you seem to believe it's a possible possibility…"

"Alice Witter!" Edward Swift's sharp voice cut through their conversation as he stalked back in through the doors. "Have you no decency, young miss? If you are to speak with Captain Sparrow, you shall march yourself to your cabin and dress in something suitable. Your nightgown is not suitable for such and _I_ shall not be belittled by _your_ lack of decorum!"

Something had the man riled. Jack grinned at her.

She scowled at him and then at Swift. "And _I_ shall not change my clothes for the lack of self-restraint with which _men_ are cursed."

"The girl does have a point, mate," Jack admitted.

Alice's jaw dropped. "_Girl_?"

"Captain Sparrow. You shall be rewarded for your goodness to our… ill… Nolan. Mr. Witter and I wish to reward you for your kindness. While you may be of a most hideous profession, it is not a hideous thing you have done for us this eve. Rather, you have acted a gentleman and we seek to compensate you for your trouble."

"Compensate at your leisure, Swindler." He cleared his throat. "Mr. Swift."

"What strikes your fancy at the moment, sir?"

Alice Witter gaped at them. She slid from her chair, slammed her own fine china onto the table next to his, and pushed past the protesting Witter Advisor. The white satin trailed behind her as she rushed from the room. The sound of her slippers tapping on the hard wood of the deck faded into the distance and was then quelled completely with the far-off slam of a door.

Jack cocked his head and folded his hands neatly together. "I shall have to carefully consider my response to that, Mr. Swift."

William Turner stared at him as he had shaked the hands of Wilhelm Witter and Edward Swift. William stared at him as he chatted gleefully with Mr. Gibbs. William stared at him as he ordered the various crew of the _Nolario _to handle their 'reward' with care. William stared at him as he navigated the men and the full-to-the-brim longboat to the _Pearl_. William stared at him as he ordered them, upon their lift to the deck of his ship, to unload the swag. And William stared at him as he wished them well as they were lowered back to sea and sent on their way.

Jack had resisted the urge to comment several times. Well, several hundred more likely. It hadn't been easy, but he had managed to do it. And now that it was only he and his friend on deck, the _Pearl's_ watchmen carrying armfuls of supplies to the hold, he grinned and slung his arm about the man's shoulders.

They stared down at the remaining treasure trove of fresh fruit, shot, rum, and trunks of riches.

"That was what ye were after."

"Aiming for it."

"Ye didn't miss."

"Course not!"

"They bought it."

"Hook, line, and sinker." Jack snickered.

"Fish."

"Fish indeed!"

"And what about when the boy wakes and finds that ye made him a fool?"

Disappointment. He sagged against his friend with the weariness of it. "Must you always emphasize the negative, William Turner?"

"If I didn't, would ye see it at all, Jack?"

"What makes you think I don't?"

A silence descended upon them.

Nonplussed, Jack withdrew his arm. Twigg, Grapple, and Ketchum who had reappeared from below, arms free, drew his attention. They were animated. Seemed excited as a matter of fact. Brighter than they had been in a long time, and with more of a bounce in their step. He would have been pleased and more than happy to grin along with them had William not knocked the wind clear from his sails.

Could the man not be satisfied with the wool they had just pulled over Witter eyes? Could he not laugh at the ridiculous ruse? Could he not find the humor and the effectiveness of it? Could he not find the good in anything that Jack did? Could he not connect the dots? Could he not read between the lines? Must he always question his ways, questionable though they might be?

Could he not answer him?

The three pirates eventually made their way back on deck. They came to a stop in front of Jack, waiting for his next order as all but the trunks of coin and currency had been stored away below.

"Many thanks Gents. Handful of clink for each of you after you take these to my quarters." He watched them hoist the three money-laden coffers and head for his cabin. "No heavy handling, no double dipping. Inflation is not welcome policy aboard our floating state of Pearlocracy."

He was answered with a chorus of grunts.

Jack watched them disappear into his cabin. "They'll take two scoops."

William nodded.

"A lad like Nolan Witter has no place in piracy, Mr. Turner." He turned and leaned against the railing of his ship. His gaze rolled with the waves out the murky midnight blue to the point at which the sky and sea were too dark to distinguish where one ended and the other began. "Trust in one of us. You'll soon trust in all of us. And not all of us are as tolerant as the one of us."

William had stepped up to join him.

Jack stole a look at his friend.

The man was pensive, watching the water in the same manner as Jack had been. His gaze searched earnestly for the horizon, and upon finding it nigh impossible, traveled down the height of the ship to the calm waters surrounding her. She was at ease docked at the favorable island. Satisfied with this, he turned his gaze to the younger pirate and nodded his understanding.

They let the silence linger between them for a few moments. Relief flooded Jack at having gained that particular nod from his friend and he took the time to look up at the stars in the sky. Several constellations revealed themselves to him in glowing splendor. But he searched for his very own. That outline of luminaries which had shown itself to him and had never quite disappeared from his sight. Catching the glint of her pointing bowsprit, he smiled.

Serenity ensconced him, and, with a bounce in his step, he headed toward his cabin to call it a night.

Elephants woke him on the morn.

There were elephants and they were aboard his ship and they were herding across the deck in a wild stampede. And there were probably zebras and leopards, too, by the sound of the roar going up. Hyenas. Cackling. Ugh, what a hideous sound that cackling was. Hyenas were simply not welcome on the _Black Pearl_. But then neither were asses and the distinct bray of an ass rose above the din.

Jack cracked an eye open.

There it was again. That braying! And laughing! And thunderous elephants! And braying!

"Ass!"

Struggling to button his breeches and throwing the doors open, he rushed out onto the deck and toward the railing where his entire crew stood peering down over onto the docks. Pushing past several snickering pirates, he came to stop next to William Turner. Whether dread or laughter was appropriate wasn't certain given the amusement clearly writ on the man's face. Not willing to waste his time wondering about it more than need be, his gaze rolled down to whatever it was everyone else was looking at.

Standing on the wood of the dock was the ass, munching happily on a bucket of carrots.

Jack shrugged. Then his gaze snapped back to the contented donkey. The flush of his face burned under the heat of the Caribbean sun. His eyes grew wide as he took in the transformed animal. Someone had taken care to the appearance of the ass, grooming its fur neatly, wrapping a red headscarf around its ears and trimming its thick mane with a variety of beads.

William slapped Jack on the back and grinned. "Got what ye deserved! An ass for an ass!"

No. _Not good._

Jack was fairly sure that if he felt any lower, he would sink directly through the planks and into the brig of his own ship. His entire crew was laughing, pointing at the ass—and at him—and… he wanted to jump overboard. Off of his own ship! He would rather have been fed to the blasted fishes. Than have this… this… oh this was _egregious_. This was not acceptable! This was—it was—

"What is _that_?"

His gaze had wandered up the docks and he squinted at the approaching figure. The crew had quieted, following his pointing hand to it. Whatever it was, it wasn't happy. It stomped. It kicked. And it carried itself with assured anger toward them. Whoever it was, they wore a purple dress. A purple dress that Jack was convinced he had seen before. But where…

_Linette!_

Ragetti's mouth dropped open. "If it ain't Barbossa!"

The deck of the _Black Pearl_ erupted in laughter.

The glowering first mate paused in his march to glare at the munching ass. His eyes grew wide and he pointed at it. A hearty laugh crackled from his throat. "It seems we've found your long lost twin, Jack." But as he spotted the ruffles around his wrist, they reminded him of his own misfortune, a snarl curled his mouth. Gauging that the reaction to this was louder than that of his reaction to the ass, he scowled and glared up at the pirates.

"Looking _lovely_, Barbossa!" Jack called to his first mate. "As always!"

"_You!_"

Jack grinned at William.

William grinned at Jack.

And then Jack bolted for his cabin and locked himself tightly in. It would be a long day. He did have Witter Wealth to count, afterall.


	3. Boatside Manners

They had been weeks out on the open ocean, weeks taking and pillaging foddered merchant ships and frustrating their feeble captains with their reluctance to send the merchant crews to their doom. Merchants didn't take well to pirates when they didn't try to kill them. One Fat Frenchman had even dared to call Jack Sparrow a coward, growling curses at the pirate captain from under his obscenely large mustache. Apparently it was an insult to take a man's spice but spare his life. Jack Sparrow saw to it that he would not insult that particular man. And so, as the so-called coward captain and his _Black Pearl_ had sailed off into the sunset, the captain of the obnoxiously decorated _Le Moi de Moi_ sputtered in the waves, tied tightly to the bowsprit of the drifting French vessel.

Good performance it had been. The Fat Frenchman had wanted to feel less affronted by the sparing of his life, and so Jack had allowed him that. But Jack had also known that two allies of _Le Moi de Moi_ weren't far off and would find the drifting ship before her crew and captain were doomed to Davy Jones. And he knew they would subsequently seek the _Pearl_ and their vengeance, being the frivolous sort that they were. Two days later when the three ships had attempted a sneak attack, when he had been woke by the sound of terrible accents and angry shouts disparaging his name, he and his crew had, after a long battle of wits with the Fleet de France, somehow managed to fill the hold with three ships worth of loot.

But that was just the sort of pirate that Captain Jack Sparrow was.

Not all pirates were as ingenious and the majority were most ungentlemanly.

On their way to the Bahamas they had been accosted by several crews of pirates, self-professed terrors of the sea, who had intended to pilfer their booty. While amusing at first, it had quickly become rather tiresome explaining, via cannon fire, that they were not going to do any such thing. And it had really been frustrating when the overzealous types would underestimate the Pearl's speed and force he and his crew to change tack at the last minute so as to not sail directly into their boats. He had not been joking when he had called the Black Pearl the last real pirate threat in the Caribbean. The ship was the only one not crewed by a squad of stupid scalawags.

Not surprisingly they had made it to the Bahamas with the goods to sell. They sold what couldn't be used and Jack had allowed the crew to keep whatever it was they fancied. He himself had been unwilling to part with a beautifully bound copy of Shakespeare's sonnets, a statue of a midnight-tressed mermaid, several jeweled rings, and a bounty of fine wine. After a few nights rest and a bit of love given to the Pearl they had set sail for French waters once again, and sought out new merchants to offend.

Not that he intended upon being anything but polite.


	4. A Recurring Theme

Being stranded on an island isn't much fun.

Being stranded on an island that you have already been unjustifiably stranded on several times is more like the opposite of whatever fun really means. Honestly, if it happened again— and he hoped, no he prayed, it wouldn't— but if it did, he would simply be forced to name the godforsaken place Sparrow Isle. There was simply no other choice in the matter.

Oh the first time, it had been misery. Being marooned there by a mutinous crew and first mate, watching Barbossa sail off with the _Pearl_… his _Black Pearl_. How he fought at first, with anything and everything he could find. He had kicked trees and coconuts and tried to pick a fight with an unwilling, and rather peaceful, sea turtle. Then the misery set in, and the sea turtle had been gracious enough to listen to his yammering on about the whole ordeal. Poor turtle. It had been nice enough to lead him to a hidden rum store though. Nice turtle. It had probably wanted him to drink himself to death so it wouldn't have to listen to any more of the sob story. Smart turtle. But rum… oh the rum was glorious. How he had loved that turtle that day. Good turtle.

Thanked his stars when those rumrunners stopped by for their cache of the glorious stuff, taking it and him with them.

The second time had been no less painful. In fact, it had pained him beyond what it had before. He had had to watch that man sail off with his ship for a second time. A second time! Finding that the rumrunners had long since abandoned that very island… well it hadn't done much for his hopes of getting off of it. And Elizabeth Swann, beautiful girl, with a wicked streak he was sure, had been there at his worst.

The sneaky girl had made sure he drank enough of the rum the runners had left behind—he had passed out, leaving her to her devices. And then when he'd woke to the smell of burning… burning plants and fruit and… rum… he had demanded to know what she was doing and what happened to the rum! Of course she had a good reason to burn it, but at the time, he had wanted to shoot her in her pretty little head. Reason runs thin when you're marooned on an island after all. It also runs thin when a beautiful girl manipulates you—you who are supposed to be one of the most cunning men in the history of cunning men ever to sail the blue—and then has the nerve to use your own words against you, mocking you, and in effect completely upstaging you.

She had been right, though. White sails were on the horizon. The Royal Navy had been looking for her, the Governor's daughter. The King's Men had come to their rescue. Well, to hers. That chilly Commodore only had one thing in mind for him: the gallows. But it hadn't worked out, fortunately. Or unfortunately. Depending on the way one looked at it. But that wasn't really the point.

The third time had been terrible. Just terrible. A storm had knocked his ship from its course, him from his ship, and when he'd woke he was looking up at those same bloody stars he remembered from so long ago. The only comfort at that point, since the silly girl had burned so much of the sparse vegetation, had been that the sea turtle, bless his heart, visited the island again. He had confessed to his shelled friend that he hadn't known whether or not the Pearl had survived the storm. Luckily she had, pulling into sight the very next day. He had been so happy to see Anamaria row that boat up to shore that he'd nearly kissed her. But he wasn't in the mood for a sound slap so he had resisted the urge, and told her instead of the turtle.

She had referred to him as being mentally unstable, raving about some damned turtle. Obviously the woman hadn't understood. The damned turtle was an old friend! And it had kept him company in the worst of times.

Now, the fourth time… well it was getting tedious, that was certain.

This time he wasn't alone. And this time, he was certain he wasn't escaping. Not because he thought Luck had grown weary with him. That wasn't the case. He was still Captain Jack Sparrow, after all. But the island wasn't his biggest adversary. His biggest adversary was the furious woman pacing up and down the small stretch of beach who was convinced that their current situation was entirely his fault.

Of course she was, he had to admit, correct in her convictions.

He had made a mistake. A very big mistake that had ended up costing both of them a great deal. And possibly, their lives. But it had been a mistake, and he felt bad enough about it, and with the frequency with which she brought it up he was quite certain he would never ever recover from the humiliation of it all.

"Sparrow!" She had no doubt been going on about the entire ordeal for the hundredth time, and had finished with the vehement pronunciation of his name. Her grey eyes flashed on him. "I should shoot you!"

He rolled his eyes and handed her his gun. "Be quick about it, love."

This seemed to infuriate her further. She growled and knocked him on the head with the hard steel of the weapon. "You are ridiculous!"

"And you seem to cling to an obstinate obsession of shooting me!" He rubbed at his head, scowling, wondering if grabbing her and dragging her across the sand would be more soothing than his fingers on his stricken scalp. He stared at her, studying her cold glare. Not likely. She would probably scream at him louder than she already was. "So go on then. Get it out of your system."

"I hate you!"

"Love, hate. Very fine line between the two."

Alice Witter didn't seem to recall the prior use of that particular line with the fondness that he did. She didn't even crack a smile. In fact, she pushed the barrel of the pistol at his forehead and snapped the hammer back.

He crossed his eyes to focus on the thing and blinked.

She pulled the trigger.

The flint cracked against the frizzen.

Jack arched a brow.

Alice frowned. She clicked the hammer back and pulled the trigger again. "Blast!" Clicksnap. Crack! Clicksnap. Crack!

Jack's brows snapped together. "Bit trigger happy, are we?"

"Shut up!"

He flicked his hands in the air in defense.

"Your gun—" clicksnapcrack "—does not work!"

"Pity."

"When I have the strength to shoot you," she growled, turning the weapon around to peer down its barrel, "when I'm mad enough to do it—the blasted gun won't work!"

Stupid woman! Jack sprang. Before she had the chance to shoot the thing at herself, he snatched it away and dropped it, grabbing her wrist and tugging her down to the sand. "You stupid woman." He pushed her hand down in the grit and glared at her. "Not to mention, if it wasn't for mishap, would-be murderer."

"I would prefer the term murderess."

"At the moment, love, I don't really care what you would prefer as much as I care what you wouldn't." Oh but he wanted to throttle her. How he wished for the carelessness of all of the men in the world who wouldn't blink at striking a woman. How he yearned for the wickedness of all the villains in the world that wouldn't mind grabbing her hair and ripping it from her skull. How he longed for the hate of all the demons in hell that wouldn't think twice about causing the woman tremendous pain and suffering. Oh if only he had any ounce of any of that. He grit his teeth and shoved her away. "You test my tolerance."

Jack listened to her feet retreat across the sand until the sound faded away. He closed his eyes. When he was satisfied with the quiet and sure that he was alone, he let them flutter open to study the solitude.

Sun beat down without mercy. He squinted and wiped a finger under his eye. It came away clean. He sighed. The kohl must have washed off in the tossing of the waves that had carried them ashore. Now, storm long passed, the water was calm. The soft ripples of the Caribbean Sea lapped at the beach, washing over it with the gentle touch of a mother to her babe.

Wondering at his own metaphor, he tugged at the knot at the back of his head and unwrapped the cotton. The gentle touch of a mother to her babe. The beads laced in his mane clunked as it swung free. Knotted locks thumped his shoulders. Loose hair brushed his cheeks as the wind caught and played with it. His own mother… She would have loved being able to let her own long hair down and feel it windswept across her face with no one to judge her for it. He squinted out at the horizon. She would have loved the free stretch of sea and sky. He glanced up at the heavens. _I miss you._

Did she miss him?

Probably not, Jack thought as he reached back and loosed the plait of hair behind his head. On one hand he hoped that whatever it was that his mother was going about doing didn't involve fretting for the living. On the other, it was comforting to think that she was somehow watching over him. Maybe she could do both. Compromise was sometimes the easiest route to a peaceful state of mind, he decided, looking up at the sky again.

A rainbow arced high above.

It was a comforting sight. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. The colors dazzled against azure. Staring up at it until it faded away seemed to ease the rest of the tension that he had hoped to rid himself of.

Somehow he wasn't surprised to hear approaching footsteps sloughing sand.

"Jack."

He closed his eyes. "Yes?"

"I don't want to be alone."

"No one is ever really alone."

"I don't want to be without you."

Now that was surprising. He shot her a glance over his shoulder and then frowned out at the sea. Panic clawed at his insides. This wasn't exactly what he'd expected from Alice Witter. Insults, maybe. Spiteful words, probably. Cold stare, certainly. But not this—sudden heart-felt—oh, his stomach lurched. This just wasn't something he had anticipated. At all.

The woman had tried to kill him. With his own gun! She had had every intention of shooting him point blank in the head and it was only thanks to the wet gunpowder that he wasn't stone dead. She had, in effect, attempted to murder him. Tried to rid herself completely of him. So why, in the name of all that's bloody holy, was she saying that she didn't want to be without him? What gave her the right, first of all, to dare to say such a thing after daring to do such a thing moments before? What gave her the right, secondly, to dare to say such a thing at all? What gave her the right, finally, to dare to say such a thing to him when he least expected it?

Not that he had expected it at all.

"Well it seems your luck's on the rise then. I've no plans for travel at the present."

Yes, it was callous, even for him. But she _had_ tried to kill him. What else could she expect from the man who had stared down the barrel of his own pistol as she'd tried to fire it at his head? Certainly she didn't expect ardent recitation of Shakespeare's florid love sonnets.

"Do you think they'll find us?"

He watched her settle down into the sand beside him, feeling, for the first time, wary of his doffed shirt, loose hair, and untouched eyes. It wasn't that she hadn't seen him such before. She had, few occasions though they might be. She had seen the scars hidden beneath his shirt. Touched them even. She had seen him with his hair down. Played with it even. And she had, herself, wiped away the kohl. But she hadn't seen him this way. She hadn't seen him on this island, this floating reminder of loss that seemed to forever come back to haunt him. As bitterly amusing it might be.

"Don't know."

"That means 'no', doesn't it?"

"It means 'No sé. Ik weet het niet.Non lo so. Wakaranai. Then katalaveno. Je ne sais pas.'" He squinted up at her in the sunlight, thanks to the blasted kohl gone missing, and shook his head. "_I haven't the foggiest_."

"Some comfort there."

"Comfort's quite a commodity here."

"Oh, I'm sure," she burst out, "that the sand and the sun and the sea turtles are quite accommodating!"

But her fury, now, was becoming amusing. A grin was crawling slowly across his face, and he felt it, lifting his cheeks and curling his mouth and mustache. And despite himself, he laughed. Damn it all anyway. He threw back his head and laughed and threw an arm around Alice Witter. Despite the sordid situation, he laughed with her, both of them chortling like fools. And then, all of the sudden, the rush lulled to a hush and he stared at her sobering face.

Those grey eyes were worried. And those white curls were limp, but they were still fine.

Jack reached up and raked them back off of her forehead, dragging his fingers through her tangled hair. "We will get off of this island, Miss Witter." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "On that I swear," he promised, pulling back to look her in the eye. The worry still there prompted his palm to cup her face whilst the other hand wandered in the air. "But now it's growing late and with late comes the dark and with dark. With dark we should sleep."

Alice Witter arched a brow. "Where?"

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

"Move over!"

Jack sighed. It was close-quarters but he had told her that before they'd painstakingly arranged themselves on the thing. The hammock that, he had explained, had suddenly been there, strung between two trees, last time he'd been stranded was big enough that they could sleep at opposite ends of it. But it had required much strategic maneuvering and he was not about to move and roll off because the woman was accustomed to her gargantuan bed.

"No room," he told her.

"Fine."

"G'night, love."

"Goodnight."

The night went silent save for the rolling tide at the beach's edge and the chirp of sand beetles as they scuttled out to play in the stuff. For all the horror of being estranged from those among the living, the uninhabited island was bliss at night. Peace was truly a commodity that it offered in abundance. He closed his eyes, more than ready for a good night's rest. It had been too long since he'd been able to sleep through the night. Surely he would sink into blessed oblivion now.

The hammock swayed…

_The deck swayed beneath his feet as he leaned over to get a better look at the mythical creature._

_Now that was a beautiful mermaid. Red hair everywhere and scantily clad—purple clamshells shielding her breasts from sight and little else but the glorious sparkling tailfin to her person. Big blue eyes gleamed through the mist gathered around the craggy rock she sat on and Jack wondered if perhaps she were surprised to see a pirate ship come so close to her refuge in the center of the sea. But she didn't seem to mind. The wide-eyed fishwoman's mouth opened wide and a sweet melody carried through the heavy air with an unnatural ease._

"_What in the name of heaven is that?"_

_Gibbs had appeared at his side, slugging at his tankard of rum._

"_That, Mr. Gibbs, is a lovely little mermaid."_

"_Fishwoman?" Gibbs narrowed his eyes. "Fishwomen are bad luck, Captain."_

"_What women aren't?" Jack leaned over the rail of the ship and tipped his tricorne hat at the scaly singing lass. "Good evening, m'lady."_

_The song stopped abruptly and the redheaded mermaid's eyes grew wider. "Oh. You can see me?"_

_He frowned. "Is that a problem?"_

"_Well you are human…" She leaned down on the rock, her arms flexing, her blue eyes glancing worriedly down at the water before settling uneasily on them. "Aren't you?"_

_Jack and Gibbs looked at each other._

"_Sort of." Jack grinned and gave a bow. "Pirates, m'lady."_

_The mermaid gave a frightened gasp. "Pirates?!"_

"_Is that a problem?" Jack frowned. Well this was getting repetitious._

"_No, it just sounded frightening! Do you have any thingamabobs?"_

_Jack and Gibbs exchanged looks._

"_How many men are on board, Gibbs?" _

"_Twenty at the moment, Cap'n."_

_Jack smiled down at the scaly lass. "We've got twenty."_

_The small fishwoman was overjoyed. Her blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight, her mouth widening with a gasp. She clasped her hands together delightedly. "Oh that is so wonderful!"_

_Jack and Gibbs grinned at each other._

"_I have twenty as well!"_

_They froze. Then their two heads swiveled to stare down at the mermaid in horror. _

"_I can show you!"_

_They screamed._

Jack's eyes popped open.

Grey eyes stared down at him.

He blinked.

"I can not sleep like that."

Jack opened his mouth to tell her that she was more than welcome to stay awake, but that she would have to do it alone. But the words stuck in his throat as she curled up beside him, laid her palm on his chest, and rested her head on his shoulder. He laid there for a moment, gazing wide-eyed up at the sky beyond the moonlit palms, gauging whether or not he should protest the obvious assumption that he would not be adverse to the new and very friendly sleeping arrangements. Not that he was. But that was hardly the point. The point was…

What was the point?

Jack squinted in the dark, trying to remember. "Hmm."

"Jack."

"Trying to pontificate in my head, love."

"I can imagine that's very risky business."

He scowled. "Thought you sought sleep's sweet embrace."

"I intend on it." Her palm slid across his chest. "But you're making noise."

"Making…" He couldn't help but watch her hand. "What?"

She traced the contour of his sternum with her fingernails. "Noise."

"Sorry about that."

"Good."

Not entirely sure he would ever locate that point he'd been searching for, Jack watched her palm come to rest over the place where he knew his heart resided. For a moment he cussed inwardly, considering that she might feel the blasted thing racing as fast as it was. But the sound of her even breathing quelled his fears, for she would be none the wiser. Alice had fallen asleep.

And so should he…

Jack let his eyes flutter shut and let himself quietly appreciate the warmth of the woman who snuggled against him. The Ice Queen of the Caribbean was not so cold as she slept. Cautiously he reached up to close his own hand over hers. "G'night, dove."

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

When he woke, the absence of both her warmth and the press of her soft body to his were most displeasing. He frowned. Blinking at the harsh sunlight that poured down into his eyes, he pushed a hand defensively at it. Finding it futile, he closed his eyes and stretched his weary muscles. Under the warm sun it felt quite good, and he sighed contentedly. Then he remembered where he was, why he was there, and who was privy to the same doom. He opened his eyes and shielded them with his palm as he sat up, rolling his head on his shoulders. To his immediate relief, he did not smell anything burning. To his immediate dismay, he remembered, quite clearly, that they had next to nothing to burn.

When he stood, he saw her sitting on the hill of sand overlooking the beach, her back to him. Her bare back… he noted, watching the white curls lick at her skin. Apparently, she had grown tired of wearing the thick shift on the heatsoaked island and doffed it without considering his well-being. As he drew closer to the woman he squinted at her rump and the familiar pattern covering it. Apparently she had also found a new use for his headscarf.

Jack didn't bother announcing his presence before he sat down in the sand next to her. But he did forgo the scathing remarks regarding her current state of dress when he noticed the look of misery on her face as she stared out to sea. "Morning Alice," he said instead, turning away before he had the chance to notice any more than her expression.

"Jack."

"Nice day."

"Yes."

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Thirsty?"

"A bit."

He untied the flask at his knee and held it out to her.

Alice looked down at it and up at him. "What's in it?"

"Freshwater."

She took it, uncorked it, and swigged a drink from it.

"There are empty bottles setup in the sand to catch rainwater."

"Clever." She handed the flask back.

He studied it, wondering if he should have filled it with alcohol instead.

"Thank you."

"Not a problem." Jack tried not to notice the woman's pretty ankles as she leaned back in the sand and stretched her long legs in front of her. Tried, and failed. Miserably. His gaze traveled up her lean legs to the supple skin of her thighs skirted by the scarf. His scarf. He tried not to notice how the way it fit her hips made him want to reach over and rip it off but that was futile as well. He had already noticed that. As well as the swell of belly above the thing, and the soft indentation of her navel above that. Finally, he managed to look away and he frowned, irritated. "Are you going to lie around like that all day, then?"

"Don't see why not."

"You don't see why not."

"No."

"No?"

"Jack Sparrow, I am on an uninhabited island in the Caribbean, miles away from polite society, not to mention every single living breathing human being whom requires my modesty." Alice turned her head to him and lifted her chin. "I do believe I have a certain unalienable right to prance about this _godforsaken spit of land_ in naught but my skin if it is what I so desire."

"Why is it that I don't require your modesty?"

"Because you're—_you_." She stood, brushed the sand off herself, and started for the shade of the trees. "That's why."

Jack watched her back as she receded into the grove of palms. When she disappeared from view he turned to the sparkling water before him. He wished, desperately, for sails on the horizon. Black sails would be best, but near any would do at this point. Maybe not Norrington's sails—windy, as they were—but… some sort of canvas. He strapped the flask to his knee and stood, cupping a hand over his eyes to survey the horizon as if wishing held some sort of magical beckon call to oblivion's appeal. It did not. He found nothing but the blue and blue. Cussing the unfortunate, he walked to the water's edge and let it lick at his toes.

Damned woman, he thought, wading out into the water.

This was all her bloody fault to begin with. He had taken enough of the blame for it. She should hold as much, if not more, in her own hands. She had been the one who had started it. It wasn't his fault that he felt he should finish it afterwards. No, she should have known better than that. Captain Jack Sparrow did not leave things unfinished.

Alice Witter was a ridiculous woman. A ridiculous woman, with very pretty ankles, she was. He stopped and grit his teeth. Ankles or not, she was bloody ridiculous! He kicked the sand underfoot. Something bit back and he frowned down at the crab that scuttled angrily away. "Sorry, mate."

Jack was hip sunk in the water and wondering how Anamaria was treating his _Pearl_, when cold sea splashed his shoulders. He shivered and spun around, finding himself face to face with the woman he'd been cursing moments ago. Illwill faded and he reached for her, running his fingers down her jaw and tilting her chin up. A look at the storm in her eyes worried him, and he regarded her in earnest.

"Rope us a couple of sea turtles," she said. "I want to go home."

She hadn't said much the rest of the day. He'd roasted crabs to eat. She had thanked him for hers. The rest of the meal they ate in silence. He had taken a walk about the island, small as it was, at dusk, expecting her to follow. But she hadn't. He'd found her where he'd left her. Dressed, he was glad to note that she was, in her shift.

He sat down beside her and followed her gaze out to the setting sun.

"Are you haunted here?"

Jack closed his eyes, shutting out the pretty picture the golden orb made. When he opened them, he was looking at the pretty picture that she made under the peach-pink sky. "Here, there, and everywhere, love."

"Last night," she said, words barely a whisper, " I thought I heard what I thought I'd never hear again."

"What?"

"Nothing," she said, still gazing out at the sunset. "Nevermind."

"Unfortunately, there is no such thing as 'nevermind' on Sparrow Isle."

"Unfortunately for you, I've already named it Witter's Spit."

Jack turned the way she pointed and frowned at the wet sand. Sure enough, there she had staked her claim in it. Big letters proclaimed the place her own, spelled out its name that'd spilled from her lips. On an ordinary day, the petty part of it would have spurred a fight from him, but it was no ordinary day.

"You snooze, you lose."

"Aye…" The _Pearl_, the _Pearl_, the rum, the _Pearl_, his sanity… Jack ticked them off on his fingertips and nodded. "That seems to be a recurring theme here."


	5. 23 December, 1684

T'was near upon Yule and at long last when the gloriously gilded _Gaelstrom_ sliced up the Thames and put into port. Snow was falling and many a man from the mostly West-Indies crew marveled at the stuff. All was blanketed in white, even the battered docks of the dockyards. Many of the men were slipping and sliding on deck and dock, and some were engaged in a spirited skirmish of snowball warfare. But William Turner, he was doing his damnedest to convince one less than spirited crewmember of the merits of Christmastime in London.

"Come, Jack, think of it," he said, "all the puddin and pie, and roasted nuts, and Christmas pheasant. There'll be iceskatin on the pond, around the big bedecked tree reckon… and at night, cider pressed special to warm yer throat!"

"And toobloodymuch noise," Jack Sparrow said, cocking a brow. "Which I've had enough of, and which will be splendidly absent from the _Gaelstrom_ while the lot of you hop it up at town." He bent to nudge snow off a coil of rope. "Sides," he said, voice a bit gruff, "I promised ol' Faust I'd take care of his ship."

"It's a privateer sloop, Jack. No one in London would dare touch the _Gaelstrom_."

"Even so, William, I made a promise and promise I shall keep."

William watched the younger man set to furling the sails. Sparrow seemed quite focused on the task, and William knew that meant the discussion had ended. Shoulders drooping, he took the rope off of his friend's hands.

"Four hands are better'n two," he told Jack.

Fast they worked together, but no less efficient. In mere moments the _Gaelstrom_'s sails were tied neatly to her rigging and Jack Sparrow was coiling the remains of the rope as William stared out at the city beyond the dockyards. Sparrow said nothing, but his own glance lingered o'er the white-topped buildings too long.

"Won't be the same without ye, but I suspect ye have yer reasons."

Jack shrugged, swaying aside to gather net that had been left a mess by the others. "Much as told you already, didn't I?"

"Not the real ones," said William, hearing a heavy Scottish brogue bellow his name, "but t'is no matter. See ye soon, Jack."

"_Au revoir_," called Sparrow. "Oh, an' William?"

In mid step, William paused. He toed the powdery snow on the gangplank. Jack's silence drew his attention o'er his shoulder. There he found a friendly gaze and despite the cold, William felt quite warm.

"Happy Christmas, mate."


	6. A Merry Surprise

T'was a bit more nip than was the sweltering usual in Tortuga and Captain Jack Sparrow frowned as he attempted against the whipping wind to fasten the buttons of his flashy new coat. Wasn't his usual style, all crimson velvet trimmed in gold, and quite a nuisance really with all its fancy gilt buttons. It'd been a laugh amongst the crew, the frilly French frock, and he'd wished for the very first time that he'd heeded Gibbs' fashion advice—it _would_ have been better to wear his familiar, if faded, justaucorps. If only, Jack thought with a twitch of irritation, he hadn't been so set upon showing a festive face at Christmastime.

Most colonial settlements had done away with tradition set down by the Church but there wasn't a place west of England so decorated at Yule as was the unsettled rock of Tortuga. Thatched roofs wore shell garland, palm fronds were strung with all manner of beads, and near upon all windows were lit with candles flickering in the slight breeze blowing in off the harbor. Several establishments were dressed with wreaths of holly leaves and one ambitious madam had dangled a fat bit of winking mistletoe over the arch of the hothouse door.

"Rather inviting," Jack said to Anamaria.

In way of answer, she snorted and took the lead through the bustling alleyways. Jack, still fussing with his buttons, was nearly trampled on several times but was much comforted by the many salutations spoke his way. They'd gone only a few crossings when a whisper of voices wafted their way.

_Here we come a wassailing_

_Among the palms so green_

They exchanged glances but kept on. As they rounded the corner they came upon the wandering wenches and wastrels making murder of a traditional tune. They stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught the curl of Anamaria's lip and couldn't help but grin just a bit for it.

"_Here we come a wandering so fair to be seen_," he intoned, doing his best to match their offkey kilter. Knowing more than well that Anamaria was readyset to pounce, he tossed an arm o'er her shoulder and winked his best at her. "_Love and joy come to you and to you your wassail too_."

_And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year_

_And God send you a Happy New Year._

"Enough," Anamaria growled, shoving him off. "Or I'll be sending _you_ to _God_, Sparrow."

Jack watched as she stomped off. He bid a fast farewell to the carollers and strode forward to catch up. "That's Captain Sparrow, love. And as your captain, I command you, darling, to brighten up just a bit."

Ana bore her teeth.

He hid a wince behind a grin of his own. "See now, that's the spirit!"

There was a moment's hesitation on her part in which Jack guessed she'd decided not to argue. It was occasionally one of her better traits, really, knowing when a bidden tongue was best. But more oft than not Jack found he much preferred their tiffs to her sharper silence. So it was that he was a bit disappointed when she turned on heel and marched forth. He hurried to catch up, near to tripping on the heels of his newly acquired boots.

"In a hurry?"

Anamaria cast a dark glance his way in lieu of answer. She ducked the eager approach of two young men she usually favored and set off around the corner. Jack stopped there to exchange sympathies with the fishermen who'd been given the off—if only to rest his weary feet. Blasted boots he'd bought felt more shoe than boot, and not for the first time he speculated as to whether or not one of his irascible crew had dropped an ill-tempored crab into the depths to snap at his toes. It would at the very least explain the pinching paining him. Some respite came by way of his rest and so he parted ways with the men and made round the corner.

The way led to the Faithful Bride, a small tavern that knew Jack as well as he knew it. Despite all the pains of appearance, he stepped inside the open door with a smile. Several men raised their mugs as he made way past their tables and two wenches blew kisses his way. The barkeep waved his filthy rag in familiar salute and handed off two mugs to an impatient Anamaria who knocked the first one back in less time than even Gibbs could have managed. Jack smiled, thinking it terribly thoughtful of her to have ordered for him, and reached for the second cup—just as she raised it to her lips and gulped down its contents.

"Thirsty, are we?"

No answer as Ana clapped the mug on the bartop and called over the bigger of the two barmaids. Name was Berthilda if Jack remembered correctly, and not so fond of him after his having once mistaken her for an ape whilst enduring a most hideous haze of drunkeness. Indeed, her heavy brow darkened on sight of him so much that he forwent ordering a cup of drink. Feeling less than festive, he watched Ana down her third and wipe her mouth on her sleeve.

"Needed that."

Jack raised a brow.

Ana scowled. She straightened her hat and slapped her mug in his hand. "I have things to do."

She was lost in the crowd 'fore he could complain that the thing was empty. No doubt the woman would prowl the streets for whatever it was she wanted to sink her claws into next. Lesser men might refer to Anamaria as a hellcat, but she was, to Jack, a tigress.

"What's on your mind, Sparrow?"

Jack looked up past the new cup set before him into the beaming face of the barkeep. Kelk was a good man with a good set of teeth. Seemed fond of showing them and who would have blamed him for it—pearly whites were hard to come by in places like Tortuga.

"The better question, Kelk, is what's not on me mind." He flashed a smile of his own, which was only as bright on count of the several precious metal substitutions he'd had put in his mouth, and eyed the white contents of the cup before him suspiciously. It was a milky substance and on sniff smelled of fat. "Nog, is it?"

"Kelk's Nog, in fact. A whole kettle of it in back for particular patrons."

"Well tis the season!"

Jack took a taste of the stuff and was pleasantly surprised that Kelk's Nog was not the usual. No, the barkeep had thickened up the recipe with coconut 'stead of eggs. For all its coconut it was surprisingly smooth. It went down lighter than the traditional drink and tasted much sweeter than he ever remembered it tasting in old England.

"You've outdone yourself, mate."

Kelk grinned and took up the empty cup. "Another?"

Jack wasn't sure how many cups of Kelk's Nog he'd had by the time he stumbled from the Faithful Bride. It had occurred to him sometime between the fifth and the last cup that Anamaria had not come back, nor had he seen neither hide nor hair of any one of his crew. T'was an odd thing at a time such as this, Yule or Christmas or whatever one might like to call it. If the men were ever in mind of anything it was having a good time and doubly so at the holidays when most of them would have liked to be home with families they'd left behind. To not see them in the place they knew best was worrying and though Jack was as wobbly in the head as the knees, he was quite concerned.

Through the dimly lit streets he hobbled. His toes protested the boots with every step but he was of mind to get to the Pearl as quick as he could. It was halfway down the docks when behind him a chorus of carolers burst into a fervant rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Pitiful as it sounded, Jack could only stare out at the silhouettes of ships in the harbor, remembering suddenly that he had not anchored there.

"'_Let nothing ye dismay_,' my foot."

Twitching with irritation he turned on his heel and fell face forward into a mound of hay. It was with some frustration that he fought his way out of the pile and it was only as he managed to poke his head out the top that he realized that it—that he—was moving! Startled, he leapt to his feet. A bad move it was, ending him up once more in the heap. He shook it off with a scowl and sat up to look about.

It was a cart he'd fallen onto. There was a beast of burden doing the pulling and a rail thin man Jack had to squint to see keeping pace beside the animal. By way they were heading, it seemed to Jack a very lucky thing that he'd tripped. With a self-satisfied smile he laid back in the hay and watched the stars twinkle overhead till the trees grew too thick to see the sky.

It was not long after that he saw his destination looming ahead. Careful not to disturb either the man or his beast, Jack picked himself from the bed of hay and leapt onto the soft ground. He noted with some distaste the straw sticking to his fashionable frock and attempted brushing it off as he made his way past the gate into the garden.

For whatever reason, Jack thought to look up and was ever glad he did. If he had put one foot further he would have stepped smack into a rotund man wearing more red than he. The man on closer scrutiny was obviously Gibbs—his great grey sideburns and wrinkled brow giving him away—but whatever the man was doing wearing a red velvet outfit trimmed in white fur, Jack had no idea. In case the man had finally gone one step too far off the dock, Jack gave him his friendliest of smiles. This seemed the right reaction, for the uncertain look on Gibbs' face was gone for an enthusiastic grin.

"**_Ho ho ho_**!"

Finding this booming greeting a bit unsettling, Jack drew back with a grimace. A glance around found shadows that took the shape of his many crew. They were standing around he and Gibbs, all of them with the strange grins on their faces.

Gibbs looked at Jack expectantly, but Jack wasn't certain what he was expecting. It seemed to him that this was the oddest scene he'd ever stumbled into—and that was really saying something. "Merry Christmas?"

"**_Merry Christmas_**!"

At Gibbs' cry, there came the unmistakeable sound of jingle bells. Flashes of gray told Jack that a group of his men were the ones making the silver sing. A tune fluted up over their melody. A happy sound it was and as if by its magic did the whole place light up. Lanterns had been lit and Jack turned in his spot to marvel at it all.

All of the palms in the yard were transformed. Their trunks were wrapped in shell garland and from their fronds hung strands of beads and baubles. At the base of the biggest was a pile of brightly wrapped parcels—presents! Jack spied one tied with a bit of satin bow and was on his way to take a look at it when something heavy careened into him and a pair of arms wrapped tightly around his middle. Steadying himself, he gaped down at the small, dark head of the small person in pyjamas that had him in a clinch he could not budge.

"A nice gift," he drawled, giving up and patting the lad on the back, "choking the life out of your captain."

Faust looked up at him, blue eyes bright as his crooked grin. He had the look of a cat that had caught the canary and it was no wonder—at this hour the boy was usually made to sleep. Jack was glad, by looking at the boy so proud of himself in his pyjamas, that he hadn't witnessed whatever battle of wills had transpired between Isaac and their superior.

"We was waiting for you all the eve!"

"For too long I daresay."

Jack turned at the sharp voice and found a fussed Alice Witter coming at them. She looked quite unlike herself—having forgone the usual ridiculous ruffles for a simple skirt and bodice. There was no bow tied at her neck and a scarf held a wild tangle of white curls back from her petulant face.

She arched a brow. "Now that you're finally here, perhaps we can have a go at the gifts?"

Panic choked Jack. His gaze darted from her to Isaac to the presents under the palm tree. "Might I delay?" At the furious look on her face, he forced a contrite smile. "T'was my intention to do the gift giving on the morrow, but if you give me just a bit of time—"

"Ya don't need it."

Without further ado, there was a heavy sack shoved at him and Jack staggered under its weight. He frowned at it and then at a smirking Anamaria. She patted him on the shoulder in passing.

"Thanks for the blade."

Indeed, the silver pommel of the dagger he'd commissioned from Will sat at her hip. Its top was the proud pearl he'd plucked from an oyster not long ago. It'd been hard work sneaking Ana's rusty old dagger off to the blacksmith for fitting but Turner had been quick about it—Jack had it back before she'd even noticed the trusty knife gone missing. All that, however, was not so imporant as was just how the woman had found not only her own gift but the hidden hoard now not so hidden and heavy in his arms…

"_You've been snooping_!"

Accusatory as it was, Anamaria's dark eyes danced at him. "And lucky for ya," she called over the holiday hubbub, "wasn't it? Knew ya'd forget to wrap up what ya had to give—being so wrapped up in that mad getup! Told ya I had things to do, Sparrow."


End file.
